


In Our Nature

by thelostrocketeer



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Apocalypse, Character Study, Comfort, Death, Desert, Hurt, Kansas City, Killing, Multi, Murder, Nightmares, Pain, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies, changes, desolution, study of personalities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 11:25:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/597190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelostrocketeer/pseuds/thelostrocketeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The zombie apocalypse started in February.</i><br/>It starts with headaches- migraines from the virus munching away at one’s cerebral cortex, or the basal ganglia. All the parts that make one human. </p>
            </blockquote>





	In Our Nature

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of those works that I am incredibly nervous to post. I do hope you like it. Thank you for taking the time to read it, if you do.

**May 5**

_Cleaning blood out from beneath your fingernails is a pain in the ass. The copper tone just seems to have seeped into the delicate skin and werewolves have a small issue of bloodlust._

_Sometimes cleaning blood out from beneath your fingernails is all you seem to do. Or scrubbing it out of your hair. Or wringing your favourite hoodie trying to get the thick brown goo out._

_The zombie apocalypse started in February._

\--

The Monster keeps watch at night, scrapes brains from his leather jacket in the day.

He carries a water bottle and a crowbar. Slightly inconvenient, but a lot more accurate than claws and fangs when it comes to smashing in someone’s head.

 _Stiles_ , he calls to The Loud One.

The Loud One looks up from where he sits sharpening what used to be his lacrosse stick with a jackknife his father used to bring along to fishing trips and camping trips and acid trips. (Back in the sixties.)

 _What_ , he asks The Monster. Punctuation has lost its place in the world, he’d concluded a month ago. Questions turned into statements and exclamations were too loud and drew unwanted attention.

 _Just checking,_ says The Monster, quiet, rare.

Fond.

\--

 

**February 13**

_It starts with headaches- migraines from the virus munching away at one’s cerebral cortex, or the basal ganglia. All the parts that make one human. They reach out with their pseudopodia and engulf one’s brain cells. They mutate and take their shape. They fuse with one’s brain and take control._

_They make one feel all warm and giddy with love. They make one want to cuddle and kiss and have copious amounts of sex._

_But then they make one try to eat off the faces of one’s friends._

\--

 _Did you hear about the family in Honolulu?_ asks The Loud One to The Pup, one chilly February afternoon as they flip struggle to concentrate on basic chemical equations.

 _They ate their neighbours,_ says The Loud One, eyes popping wide.

 _Yeah_ , says The Pup, _weird_ , he nods.

The Loud One grins at The Pup, the same thought flashing through their minds. Years of video games and cheap horror flicks ingrained into their seventeen year old minds draw them both to the same conclusion.

(That and the fact that every second they’ve spent crammed knee-to-knee in their bedrooms building blanket forts and escaping from lions and giraffes and swapping stories of pretty girls and boys and shedding tears made of salt and water and grief could outnumber the grains of sand on the beach.)

 _Zombies_ , they say in tandem.

 _Hey, if you can exist, they can too, right?_ says The Loud One, returning to his Chemistry book.

The Pup nods sagely and tries to memorise the general molecular formula of Alkenes.

\--

 

**September 8**

_In a world ever changing, one clings to the constants. The rising and the setting of the sun. The way one’s heart races when one runs. The number of steps it takes to walk up and down the stairs. The changes of the weather and the coming of the seasons._

_Constants that almost never change, like tastes and chromosomes._

\--

It’s raining outside, the light sheen of water reflects the moonlight off of every surface like someone’s wrapped everything with Clingfilm. The wind is chilly against their faces for a late summer’s night. The Loud One rubs his arms up and down to make the goose bumps subside.

 _This would be the perfect backdrop for some indie music video. Soft focus and zoned out looking girls, I could dig that,_ says Curly to The Loud One. _The only thing that’s missing is the fogged up breaths._

They’re on lookout while everyone else is inside, eating dinner and making plans.

 _I don’t know man, I never did like the kind of music you listened to,_ teases The Loud One.

 _Oh, like your reggae-hip-rock was_ that _great,_ eggs Curly back at him.

 _Screw you, man,_ says The Loud One.

They grin at each other through the damp reflections on their gas masks.

\--

 

**April 8**

Curly traces the soft skin on his forearm, where the scars he picked up before he turned into a less-scary monster still linger. Still show up lighter than the rest of his skin, and puckered from stitches long removed, still show and sometimes still hurt.

(Nowadays scars don’t last, they never form. His body should be covered in them, fresh scars from fresh battles, but it isn’t. His skin glues itself back together, his muscle grows back as fast as he breathes, his veins knit together like wool and yarn on the needles of his grandmother.)

What scars that linger are the ones from _before_.

When fighting back was no option, when pain was inflicted with more malice than coincidence.

The scars that linger are straight and thin, and round and jagged. Some are small and some are big, but all are permanent. (Inside and out.)

(And self-inflicted and Father-inflicted)

The scars on his body mark him as strong, mark him as weak, mark him as alone.

Mark him as different.

He’s always been different.

So Curly wears a plastic mask that’s too hot and stuffy, it makes his face oily and matted. He wears a skin coloured mask that hides his marks. He stays up late at night, past his shift at The Monster’s house, where he lives with The Loud One.

He stands watch.

\--

 

**May 11**

_There is a code imprinted into one’s DNA. It is ingrained into the very proteins and phospholipids that form the semi-permeable membrane of each cell in one’s body._

_It says we protect. It says we take no sides._

_It says we hunt those who hunt us._

\--

The Hunter and The Archer watch the grey world around them.

The Archer picks out movement; the rustle-crunch-snap of twigs and dead, dry leaves being trodden on underfoot. The slight twitch of the air as skin slices through the Brownian movement of the wind. The slow moan of the undead as their limbs squidge and slide together.

The pressure of her bowstring across her lips is familiar. The tension in her upper arm, taut and ready from the muscles in her shoulder to the ones in the tips of her fingers is familiar. The reassuring weight and cool grain of the polished wood of her longbow is familiar.

It is all familiar, even the prey she stalks is fast becoming familiar.

The Hunter barely flinches as the arrow twangs through The Archers grasp, whips through the air and buryies itself deep in the skull of the grey-skinned teenager covered in faded black tattoos and fresh, wriggling, pale-yellow maggots.

Black liquid spurts and slowly flows as the body drops to the ground.

 _Good shot,_ says The Hunter.

The Archer would smirk, definitely would have, but she doesn’t. The days of smirking are over. Smugness is a wasted commodity.

\--

 

**March 14**

The girl he was sleeping with turned a day ago.

Jackson runs up the flight of stairs to the apartment of the one named Danny. His best friend, his _compadre_ , his confidante. He hopes, prays, pleads, begs as his legs pump and work against the forces of gravity and dread and worry.

 _Please be okay,_ he thinks to himself (to the beat of his heart)

As he reaches for the door he can smell Danny.

(He smells normal, Armani and expensive shampoo.)

He opens the door and Danny’s there, smiling like there’s nothing wrong. His apartment walls are lined with supplies, water and TV dinners and lube. He’s been stocking up, just in case.

 _Jackson,_ _hey_ , he says.

 _Oh, shit, thank God you’re okay_ , says Jackson.

He reaches out to embrace his friend, opens arms and open heart. Relief floods his mind. Danny smiles and shrugs it off; Jackson has always been erratic.

\--

_The thing about relief is it makes one forget rules and precautions. It makes one sloppy, forgetful._

\--

 

**June 12**

The Loud One listens to the death toll announcement on the radio. The signal is weak and the sound is laced with static, but the words are clear as crystal to his ears. As of this afternoon, two thirds of the earth’s population is gone. The Hills with the Beacons are down to less than two hundred Uninfected.

He can’t count the number of people he knew on one hand anymore. He can remember their names, their faces. There was a Mr Harris, a Doctor Deaton, a Mrs McCall. A Greenberg, a Celia, a James, a Danny. The bartender, the cleaning lady, the librarian.

He knows they’ll have to start moving east soon.

\--                                                                                                 

_The virus came from the shores, then spread inwards. New York, Phoenix, Austin. They say it started in Japan. They say it started in Egypt. They say nobody really knows where it started. They only know what it is._

_(Deadly, that is.)_

\--

**July 3**

_Road trips never end well. Road trips are tedious and stuffy and bad music looping on abandoned radio stations. Road trips are uncomfortable sleeping arrangements and awkward toilet breaks. Road trips are arguments on who scouts and who tails. Road trips are trying to figure out how to siphon gas and getting it all over one’s face._

_Road trips are too much time spent figuring out which way to go because someone lost the map and dead people aren’t good with directions._

\--

_Road trips suck, especially when you add zombies into the mix._

\--

 

**May 13**

The Pup turns off the television. The generator out in the shed is still half full of gas, but conservation is key to survival (said The Hunter.)

He looks around the empty shell of what used to be home. Most of the furniture is pushed against the windows; the front door is barred with planks of wood, which used to be the dining table. Pictures are taken off the walls, having them fall off and break would be annoying.

His mother would have balked at how he’s treated the family heirlooms.

But she’s not here, only her ghost is left and it tuts disapprovingly at The Pup as he rummages around the kitchen for a fresh can of baked beans. She tells him to wash the old can before he throws it onto the growing pile of tin cans gathering in the corner. She tells him he should get some sleep.

She tells him she loves him.

\--

_Dead family are sometimes like ghost limbs. They’re gone but one can still feel them. One can still feel them guiding one through daily life._

_One can almost imagine that they’re still there._

_Trying to hug you so tight your lungs give out and you can’t run away when they bite you so they can ensure the survival of the species._

_The pain of asphyxiation though, that steams and burns in the spaces between one’s alveoli- can’t be imagined._

_Not when it leaves one breathless and gasping and lying in a heap next to a pile of dirty clothes and broken furniture._

_\--_

The Pup gets lonely, yes.

He gets scared, too.

(He never really knows what he’s doing.)

But at least he doesn’t have to wear a gas mask when he’s alone, like this.

\--

 

**March 17**

Danny starts acting weird.

Jackson has never been his type.

(But then again Jackson is _everyone’s type_.)

\--

 

**April 20**

Curly watches the world from behind his own plastic prison.

Now everyone sounds like Darth Vader.

He wonders how his father would have fared in this strange new hell. Perhaps he would have been infected. Then Curly would have been the one to kill him instead of Kanima Boy. Or perhaps he would have been killed by his father. Maybe locked into the freezer-

forever.

A few feet away, The Pup and The Archer sit and hold hands through their gloves.

 _Hey, Isaac_ , says The Pup, looking up at Curly, mouth goofy behind his own mask.

 _What time does my shift start?_ he asks, smiling.

Curly checks his tattered French book.

 _Eleven_ , he says.

The Pup thanks him and returns to talking to The Archer, as softly as he can.

Curly thinks the lack of sexual interaction must be straining. 

He wouldn’t know, though.

(He does wants to reach out, though. He wants to hold The Pup and The Archer. To bury himself in their skin and never let them go. The boy with the uneven jaw and the girl who once stabbed him. He’s grown fond and fondness is deadly. He wants to share their scents, but he knows he can’t.)

He just follows the schedule and watches for the Infected.

\--

_The virus is an experiment gone wrong. Smart, but weak. It knows the fastest way to spread is by bodily fluids._

_(Coughing, kissing, fucking.)_

_That’s why one acquires a taste for face._

_The closer you are, the easier it is to sink your teeth into another person_.

\--

 

**June 15**

The Pup hears of a safe zone. Curly nods eagerly while The Pup and The Archer tell The Monster.

 _Kansas,_ they say, voices full of hope and longing and assurance.

 _Derek, it’s our only chance_ , pleads The Fire Starter, the girly cadence of her voice long gone from months of blood and death and those thrice-damned gas masks. She stands with Blondie and The Mountain. Her face is ashen and beautifully worn, too old for a seventeen year old.

(She washes her hands of her parent’s blood, sets her house on fire.)

(The stains never come out.)

The virus is spreading inwards, fast; The Hills with the Beacons are down to under a hundred people.

 _We can be ready to leave in two days,_ says The Hunter.

(There is nothing left here for them, the town is burning fast.)

The Monster nods.

\--

 

**April 23**

Gas masks lose their appeal, The Loud One decides. Mandatory things aren’t cool.  

It’s like how trying to write in cursive was cool before they make one do it in junior high. Or how climbing a rope always seemed cool before PE. Or how a zombie apocalypse always seemed so epic before it actually happened.

He tells The Monster this. The Monster shrugs and glares at him from behind the gleaming plastic and tells him to keep quiet.

The Loud One gives him the finger. That used to be cool too.

They’re sitting on the roof. The Loud one craves a smoke.

(He knows he shouldn’t.)

\--

 _Werewolves_ seem _to be immune. But anyone could be a carrier._

\--

 

**March 18**

Danny bites Jackson. Not the soft lusty kind of the past few days; a sharp, strong bite, drawing blood and leaving a bright red circle at the base of Jackson’s throat, making the purple bruises somehow pale and seem-

Normal.

He backs away, mouth agape, on his tongue the copper tang of blood.

The cogs in his head click into place.

He shoots himself as the bite on Jackson’s neck starts to heal.

\--

 

**March 20**

_One starts paying attention to the news, when their friends suddenly start eating each other after sex, or in the middle of the hallways in school._

_One starts taking things seriously, stocking up on canned food and bottle water and batteries and bullets when suddenly there is a worldwide announcement that everyone should buy full face gas masks and set up decontamination showers in their homes._

_One realises the gravity of the situation._

_One prepares for the worst._

_Then again one is always prepared, what when one deals with werewolves on a daily basis._

\--

The Loud One pushes the shopping trolley out of the heated store into the brisk air of almost-spring. It is heavy laden with mineral water and microwave dinners; cans of soup and beans. Small hills of batteries and pocket knives and two cartons of cigarettes. Kerosene and gasoline and a crate of matches. Soap and toothpaste and toilet paper.

The Loud One is always prepared.

He loads them into his jeep as his phone rings.

 _Hey, dad,_ he says as he piles packets of toilet paper on top of the two sleeping bags.

 _Hey, Stiles. Did you get everything on the list?_ asks The Sheriff (Bacon and ground meat and lard, because the world is ending, anyway.)

The Loud One scoffs, _of course not. Haven’t you learnt anything from Zombieland? Cardio, dad,_ he says, trying not to think about the cancers he’s hiding under the backseat of the jeep.

 _Well, I tried,_ sighs his Father.

The Loud One grins.

\--

 

**April 30**

_It’s the little tendrils of hope that trip one up. Hope that tomorrow one will wake up and this will have all just been a horrid dream, where one has to stick barbeque sticks into the craniums of one’s school mates and learn to shoot a gun._

_(Where you can’t put your tongue into a Sourwolf’s mouth because he could be a carrier and you get canker sores from where you bite your lip to stop from saying things that make other people want to stick barbeque sticks into one’s own cranium.)_

_Hope makes one think it will all be better (when it really, really won’t.)_

\--

The Sheriff gives The Loud One his jacket. The special one with the word “Sheriff” embroidered into the sleeve.

(When he was young, The Loud One would put it on; breathe in the comforting smell of his father and home and love and gun powder that’s seeped into the fabric; worn and soft from years of use.)

He tells The Loud One that a woman coughed into his face as he was putting on his gas mask. _But it should be fine, probably_. _Just need to take the necessary precautions for the next few days_ , he says, smiling.

The Loud One nods, the skin of his cheeks soaking up his silent tears. He knows, far too much for a seventeen year old. He knows but he must hold his tongue and not cry out.

He must reassure his father and fake a laugh.

The Monster looks away from where he has grown roots into the couch.

The Sheriff gives The Hunter his gun and cuffs himself to the radiator in The Hunter’s basement.

\--

The Hunter washes the blood out of his shirt and throws away the rubber gloves that are covered in grey matter.

\--

 

**November 7**

They throw a small party for The Monster. They raid a liquor store and everything. They double check the boarded up windows and the door, make sure that the room is sealed up tight before they pop open the cork on the bottle of vodka.  

The werewolves can’t get drunk, not anymore, but The Monster knocks back shot after shot anyway. They sit around the electric burner and pass the bottle round. They drink to The Monster. They drink to the Hills with the Beacons. They drink to life. They drink to the passing Infecteds walking outside, their soft groaning seeping its way in through the walls. They drink to the silly decisions of youth and ignorance.

They drink to Danny, to Jackson, to Greenberg. They drink to The Coach, The Sheriff, to Melissa. They drink to Doctor Deaton, to Peter. To Victoria. To The Mountain, to Blondie.

They drink to the Pack.

(They drink to The Fire Starter, immune and intelligent.

They drink to The Pup, faithful, loyal and strong.

They drink to The Loud One, resourceful and cunning.

They drink to The Archer, accurate and deadly.

They drink to Curly, shy and unassuming and different.

They drink to The Hunter, upright and true to his word.

They drink to The Monster, brave and forthright.)

\--

 

**June 17**

The Mountain rides with Blondie on his motorbike. They don’t bother with helmets because they don’t fit over the gas masks. They scout ahead, making up hand motions for different situations. The Mountain wears a locket with a picture of his grandmother, cut to fit the oval shaped silver pendant

The Pup, Curly, The Fire Starter and The Archer ride with The Hunter in his once-shiny SUV, guns and arrows and crossbows loaded into the trunk, on top of boxes of canned food and bottled water. The Hunter plays soft rock and watches The Pup in the rear-view mirror.

The Loud One and The Monster take the jeep, the backseat and tiny trunk jammed with as much supplies as they can fit. The Loud One puts on The Sheriff’s jacket and takes his gun holster.

The Jacket fits him too well.

(The holster hangs on his hip and he feels like a cowboy.)

The Monster watches as the trees turn into desert.

\--

_In the desert everything looks the same._

_There are cars, stalled by the side of the road, half full tanks waiting to be siphoned._

_There are Infecteds, slow but smart, their once-pink lips grey and covered in dried blood._

_(These are the ones who almost got out-_

_But the virus is quick, and suicide is hard. )_

\--

 

**May 17**

_One remembers when they had other problems. Other problems like fitting in and making friends._

_When the world shudders to a stop and people one knows become people one used to know, other problems tend to disappear into the past._

\--

Blondie puts down her book as her ears pick up the sounds of movement.

Her body tenses, muscles contracting as her bones slide into place. She’s gotten the hang of the shift, something to be proud of, if pride were something still worth anything at all.

(When it was, she was rich.)

 _Isaac_ , she whispers. _Is that you?_

Generally, unannounced visitors are a pain in the ass. Currently, unannounced visitors are a threat and a half.

_Hey, Erica._

It’s The Mountain and Blondie’s heart rate drops to normal, the blood stops roaring in her ears. She can even manage a small smile.

The world seems brighter.

\--

 

**June 18**

In the desert, yellow fills the air and the lungs. It gathers in the ledge of the Jeep and the folds of The Hunter’s bright red bandana. It gets in The Mountain’s ears and into all their boots.

The paved roads are hot, steaming, gleaming; mirages twinkling as far as The Loud One can see behind the coloured sheet of plastic he puts over his mask.

(It’s pink and it’s got little heart shaped perforations. He got it from a Barbie D-I-Y set.

Everything is pink and blood is redder.)

(Run, run fast or you’ll be deader.)

\--

_Everything is hot to touch and one regrets travelling into the desert in the middle of June._

_Especially when one’s sweat has soaked through one’s shirt and leaves sweat stains on the upholstery._

_Especially when one runs low on gas and the AC needs to be turned off._

\--

 

**March 23**

_Maybe you should turn me_ , says The Loud One to The Monster.

_Maybe you should turn me and I can stop worrying about getting it. Maybe we can both just be carriers and not have to bother with fucking gas masks and sanitation. Then… then-_

_Then what,_ asks The Monster.

_Then we can leave together._

But The Monster holds his tongue, fights back the urge to rip off his mask and sink his fangs into The Loud One’s neck.

( _The bite is a gift_ )

\--

_A gift that can kill._

_And perhaps, if one is a carrier, the bite could cause a different reaction._

_Imagine: Fast moving undead corpses carrying venom and virus, armed with claws and fangs and super strength and sense of smell._

_Imagine: Trying to outrun a werewolf that doesn’t just want to kill you, but impregnate your blood with tiny mutated creatures that feed and fester in your brain._

_Imagine: A non-Alpha, capable of rendering one monster._

_That sounds like fun._

\--

 

**June 21**

_In the desert, no one can hear you grunt as you stick a knife into a stranger’s brain._

_(But then again nobody is a stranger anymore, it is all familiar._

_The Infected are all the same, see.)_

\--

One wonders where these people came from, where they were going.

The Monster tells The Loud One not to think about it as he draws his claws through the rotting skin of a man (not a man, used to be a man) wearing a dirty plaid shirt and scuffed boots.

The Loud One tries not to.

Tries very hard.

(And fails.)

\--

**March 25**

Jackson disappears.

Alicia, a girl The Loud One used to know says she saw him driving out of town.

The Fire Starter cries as The Archer holds her and tells her it’s alright, that _he’ll be alright, okay?_

\--

 

**May 20**

The Mountain misses eating Doritos. He misses Advanced Biology in room 306. He misses the skating rink and his green Zamboni. He misses watching lacrosse games on the weekends. He misses the cardamom smell of his grandmother’s sofa.

He misses his grandmother.

In a bleak new world order, he misses the soft crinkles of the lines on her forehead when he would come home from school. He misses the way her lips twitched when he said something funny. He misses the aromas of her cooking wafting up the stairs to his room. He misses the way she raised her eyebrows at Blondie before offering her a cookie. He misses the small thumbs up of approval she gave him behind Blondie’s back.

He misses home and comfort and breathing the fresh air.

But The Mountain is no fool. He is no wayward son; he knows there is no peace when he is done. The Mountain sees and he believes; bleak grey and the smell of death.

He knows better than to hope.

\--

 

**January 10**

The Monster comes through the window, like he always does, like he’s always done. (Since before they were friends and since before they could even stand each other)

(Since before he trusted The Monster, or The Monster, him.)

 _Merry Christmas_ , he says.

The Loud One scoffs. _A bit too late, don’t you think?_ he asks.

 _Then I guess I brought this for nothing_ , says The Monster, holding out a package wrapped in brown paper.

The Loud One smiles and unwraps it like a child. The Monster watches on, smiling, encouraging.

The Loud One steps back when he sees the gift he holds.

_You remembered._

\--

 

**June 25**

They meet an Uninfected. He carries a knife and calls himself Gideon.

He calls out _hey, where are you heading._ He begs them to let him join them, _please_.

Thing is-

Thing is he doesn’t have a gas mask.

Thing is he’s been out there alone for so long.

Thing is _he smells funny_ , growls The Pup over the walkie.

Thing is he hears The Pup and he grins, his mouth is full of fangs and saliva.

\--

The Monster snarls, rips off his gas mask.

 _Derek what are you doing_ , yells The Loud One.

The Monster growls, roars, bares his fangs and snaps.

Gideon grins, eyes electric blue.

\--

_The problem with rabid dogs is that they go for the jugular, no holds barred. Fangs glinting with spit and tongues lolling with disease. They reach for what they can and grab and pull and gnaw and rip with their claws and their teeth._

_The problem with rabid dogs is when they have names and faces and they buy you Christmas gifts and bring you coffee._

\--

The Monster spits; blood and guts splatter on the steaming asphalt. He draws the back of his hand across his mouth, the red streaks on his face, matches with the red seeped into his hands.

Gideon lies on the ground, his neck ripped into ribbons, confetti; The Loud One can see his carotid artery slowly pulsing as his blood drains from the body. The blood pools and his green coat soaks it up like a sponge.

The Hunter walks up to the massacre, his crunching footsteps on the loose gravel glaringly loud over the heavy breathing of his companions. He inspects the body. Closes the lids over the unstaring hazel eyes. He looks up at The Monster, nods.

The Monster nods back.

The Loud One sits, jaw clenched so tight he can feel his teeth grinding into each other in his jeep, the words of a long forgotten nursery rhyme suddenly seeping into mind.

_One, two! One, two! And through and through, the vorpal blade went snicker-snack!_

\--

 

**January 11**

_When one wakes up and finds they are naked and draped over the body of an Adonis, one tends to feel very pleased with themselves._

**\--**

_Morning, Sourwolf,_ says The Loud One with a grin.

 _Good morning, Stiles,_ says The Monster, stroking his short brown hair.

 _Thank you for the gift,_ says The Loud One into The Monster’s chest.

 _I like it very much,_ he whispers.

  _I like you very much_ , comes a voice through the chest he rests on.

The Loud One smiles.

_\--_

**July 31**

_The tendrils of hope make one think that there is a safe zone in Kansas._

_(Of course there isn’t.)_

_What there are are abandoned houses and buildings with boards over the windows. There are Infecteds on every street corner._

\--

The Fire Starter closes her eyes, her eyelids are red from the heat of the August sun shining down idly on the abandoned town. Her sigh is world-heavy; she recites the periodic table under her breath. She reaches for her gun.

The Pup holds The Archer close as she sobs, a cry of anger and sadness and fear. Curly wraps his tall form around The Pup and smooths The Archer’s hair.

The Hunter turns his attention from his daughter and her pets, he looks towards the sky. He runs his hand through his greying blonde hair. He thinks of loss and death. He remembers the soft skin behind Victoria’s ear.

Blondie and The Mountain grab some supplies, stuff them into their rucksacks. The Monster gives them his blessing as they ride off, head towards Canada. The Mountain clutches his locket till his knuckles turn white and stiff. Blondie whispers softly the words of a pop song she used to sing.

\--

_The tendrils of hope make one trip and fall and scrape one’s knees then laugh as it holds up the band aids too high for one to reach._

\--

 _It’s too late to turn back,_ says The Loud One to the Monster under his breath.

 _I know,_ says The Monster to The Loud One.

\--

 

**December 25**

_Snow falls outside in the empty streets of the city._

_The tiny ice particles drift and cover every surface._

_One thinks of Christmas carols and hot chocolate and eggnog._

_One thinks of warmth and love and home and family._

_One thinks of Pack._

\--

 _Merry Christmas, sir_ , says The Pup to The Hunter. The Hunter smiles, rare, the lines on his face deepen and crease. He is aged, changed, different; his eyes have seen so much more than anyone can imagine.

 _Merry Christmas, Scott,_ says The Hunter to the Pup. The Pup grins, easy and fast. He is the same, still fresh faced and hopeful. The same boy who left The Hills with the Beacons, yet different. Tougher.

 _Merry Christmas, Lydia,_ says The Archer to The Fire Starter. The Fire Starter smiles, the first one in a long while. She has matured, her strawberry blonde hair is chopped off haphazardly and held back in place with bobby pins stolen from an abandoned cosmetic shop.

 _Merry Christmas, Allison_ , says The Fire Starter to the Archer. The Archer smiles, her face tight. She is always wary, her eyes are lined with the blue-black of insomnia, stark against her pale skin. Her eyes ever ready to aim.

 _Merry Christmas, guys_ , says Curly to The Loud One and The Monster. The Monster smiles, not the homicidal grin of the past, but a sincere smile. His beard has grown out, he looks older, a reflection of the changes inside. The Loud One smiles, mouth lifting and hands running amok through his long hair. He isn’t as loud anymore, more collected and calm, but still deadly.

 _Merry Christmas, Isaac_ , says The Loud One to Curly. Curly grins, the same grin he first broke in when The Doctor showed him how to take pain away. His marks are the same, but his brain says he belongs, now.

\--

 

**August 1**

The Fire Starter pulls her gun from her back pocket, sends a bullet into the base of the neck of an Infected female. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink, doesn’t care. She thinks of mathematical formulae as she reloads her gun.

The Archer takes down Infected after Infected, her arrows never missing. She yells at The Hunter to watch out. He shoots the advancing corpse point blank. The rotten insides coat his gas mask in a layer of  dark brown and black.

Curly and The Monster and The Pup claw their way through the mass of infected used-to-be-humans and clear a path for The Loud One, who strikes down on skulls with rage and anger and his lacrosse stick.

The roads of Kansas are paved with rotting intestines and wriggling maggots.

\--

_The zombie apocalypse started in February._

_Welcome to the world._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my "plz halp me make sure this makes sense, plz" people, Emily and Axl. 
> 
> Unbeta'd, mostly. (Please do point out any mistakes in the comments, thank you.)
> 
> References to Wayward Son by Kansas, Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll.
> 
> Title is directly lifed from the album In Our Nature by José González.
> 
> Inspired by a nightmare I had about all my friends turning into zombies and me having to stab them in the head with a chopstick(? Can't remember.) (Not. Fun.)
> 
> Comments are encouraged, as always.


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